


if it's drama people want

by shipwreckblue



Series: a smiling god [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (... You Know), (almost definitely unless Alex Newall makes good on his twitter threat), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, But I don't wanna squick anybody out, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, General Creepy and Uncomfortable Overtones, I'm not sure if it even counts as violence it's just typical Flesh Weirdness, M/M, No Blood, Post-MAG 130, The Flesh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 10:03:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue
Summary: “The thing is,” Jon says, and now he is moving even closer. “The thing is I do need something from you. Don’t worry, it’s not- It’s not answers.”Mister Newall saida thingon twitter and I had to get this out of my head.





	if it's drama people want

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure- I'm posting this fic even though I don't actually _like_ it that much myself. Writing it made me kind of uncomfortable? But I figured that writing it was the best way to kind of exorcize the idea, and I had all of the words for it, and I like the way the words arranged themselves. I just don't actually like the scene or in any way want this to be what happens in canon, unlike the sadist producers of the actual podcast, apparently. I blame the people on twitter who put this thought into my head. You're welcome; hopefully someone enjoys this!

“Martin,” says Jon’s voice from behind him, and Martin can’t help but startle, swearing under his breath. He slides the book he was pulling deftly back onto a different shelf than he’d taken it from, offering a silent apology to whatever haggard librarian has to adjust his mistake. Peter keeps saying it’s best nobody sees.

“How many times do we have to go over this, Jon?” He asks, trying to inject some irritation into voice when it starts to creep back towards the weariness he feels. It’s only gotten stronger each time Jon has ambushed him like this, and it’s hard to tell whether or not that’s a good thing.

He turns. Jon is much closer than his voice had originally sounded, barely a meter away. “Ah, don’t worry, Martin, I’m not here to interrogate you,” he says quickly, and he _sounds_ almost reassuring, but there’s something off now that Martin is looking at him. He can’t put his finger on it, but it’s spooking him. He nods once and adjusts his posture minutely. “Good, because I’m not having that conversation again. And I’m juggling quite a lot at the moment actually, so if you’ll-”  
  
“The thing is,” Jon says, and now he is moving even closer. “The thing is I do need something from you. Don’t worry, it’s not- It’s not answers.” Martin still can’t decide what is so out of place about his behavior- Except maybe for the closeness, but that’s been more of a gradual adjustment, happened before he died. “It’s- I just need to borrow something from you. Have it back in a tick. Really no…” There is a very odd hitch in his breathing. “Fuss.”

Martin’s left heel slides back and hits the base of the bookshelf, and it clicks. Jon has been looking him right in the eye this whole time. It was _Martin_ who’d looked away first, down at… Well, down at his mouth, once, and he curses himself because how could he be hoping now, _still,_ even in the back of his mind that this might be some ridiculous-

Jon’s left hand suddenly shoots out and grabs a handful of Martin’s shirt, near his waist. Martin only has time to articulate a surprised, wordless noise before Jon is tugging it up, yanking his shirttails from their tuck, exposing the roll of his stomach. He draws back like he’s about to throw a punch, but much more purposeful, precise; he does not make a fist. And before Martin can properly react, shout, push him away, anything, Jon has plunged his right hand into Martin’s gut all the way up to the elbow.

“Okay,” Jon whispers, as if to himself, paled but with a hard set to his eyes and his face so, so close now. Martin can’t seem to force any sound out through the sudden constricting lump in his throat. He wheezes. Amazingly, Jon’s expression pinches and he says, “Sorry. Sorry, this was never going to be comfortable but I promise- Ah. See, I needed to go in under the ribcage…”

And that _is_ what he’s doing, reaching up sickeningly through the cavity of Martin’s chest like some overlarge parasitic worm, like there’s a seam somewhere that could have let him in; like a widening hole. Martin can _feel his knuckles_ brush against each rib. Belatedly, he notices that Jon's sleeves are rolled up. “See, I’ve practiced on myself a few times now but I’m not that great at moving bones,” Jon continues, like he’s talking himself through the nerves of the process, like he’s got his whole forearm deep in some vintage carburetor and not Martin Blackwood’s body. “So I thought I’d err on the side of caution, as it were. Oh, here we go-” And there it is. Fingers in his chest. A hand on his beating heart. Martin exhales suddenly, a shuddering breath.

“I- Well here, I’ve got it now, I just- Hold still.”

Martin cannot move. Jon braces his other forearm on Martin’s chest- firm but nearly coaxing -and then there is wrenching sensation that very nearly blacks out Martin’s vision. His legs tremble, holding his weight. With the same careful, resolute motions, Jon draws his hand down and all the way back out of Martin’s chest. Then it’s just his wrist, buried somewhere near what might, Martin thinks faintly, be his lower intestine. There is a nauseous throbbing sensation from the spot, but no pain, and no blood.

Jon removes his hand entirely. It slips out somewhere to the left of Martin’s belly button, leaving smooth skin and no mark of evidence it had ever been there at all. In his palm is cradled Martin’s weakly beating heart. Like the skin of Jon’s hand, it is clean.

He feels a dizzy rush of panic, but it’s all wrong because his heart rate doesn’t speed up- It doesn’t go at all- Except it _does,_ in Jon’s hand, and Martin can watch it happen, but he can’t feel anything. There’s no sensation, and he should be dead, but if anything, Martin is just… vaguely uncomfortable. Winded. _Perhaps a slight case of vertigo,_ he thinks, and for some hell-forsaken reason his mind hears it in Peter’s voice.

“H- How,” Martin croaks, trying to stay upright, trying to find his breath again.

Jon steps back, as if to give him some room. Rather than the heart in his hand he is looking at Martin again. “I… did some reading, had a chat with an interesting woman by the name of Ms. Wright, and then- Well, I told you. I know things, now. I know you’re going to be all right,” he adds rapidly as if that means anything. “Don’t… Try not to worry, okay?”

Martin cannot control the laugh that bubbles out of him, thin and reedy like a whistle. If Jon notices, he does not react. “I’ll just, ah, pop this here, for safekeeping.” He makes a motion as if to tuck Martin’s heart - the beat sluggish now but impossibly still thumping away - Into his breast pocket, it looks like at first, but Martin can see his hand go between the buttons of his shirt, and now the empty space in his chest feels cold.

Jon offers an expression that was probably meant to be sympathetic. “Look, I wouldn’t have taken such a… Hands-on approach, it’s just this is very important, and I… I _knew_ it would work, you see.” He taps his own chest. “But do relax, I only need to borrow this. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. You can just… Have a bit of a sit-down, maybe with whatever you were reading back there. You, ah, you probably won’t really even notice it’s gone.”

“Why-” Martin croaks. “Why didn’t you tell me.” He’s not sure why this is so imperative to know, but he must. “I could’ve- I could’ve-”

For maybe the first time since Martin has seen him alive, Jon gives him a smile. It is somehow fond, yet entirely vacant. “Goodness, Martin, I thought it was really just more or less what we agreed upon. No details. Minimal contact. Distance.”

“Ripping each other’s hearts out with no bloody warning?” Martin rasps, disbelieving.

A little crease appears between Jon’s eyebrows. “Well,” he says. “Yeah. More or less.”

Apologetic, like an afterthought, Jon steps in and brushes a kiss on Martin’s cheek, right near the corner of his mouth. Martin always imagined his lips would be dry, probably chapped, but they are just cold. “What was that for?” He whispers. The chill is spreading.

“Just a thank you,” Jon says, and his voice is easy, and his eyes are like ice. “Now. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave feedback if you have any. Like I said, I'm not super thrilled with how this came out but I didn't want to work on it for any longer, either. If you like my content also feel free to check out my [TMA blog](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/) where I am always talking literally nonstop!


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